Poetry – Page 3 – Appalachian Review

The Warp

Fall 2019/Winter 2020 ♦

Poetry

Everything rusts, warps, settles off-center askew. I ask you, Is this what I meant to make of myself? Except what’s entered the cracks in the smooth façade of my intent is bright—unforeseen as moonlight’s body in the radiant dark. Rusted solid, I am stuck in spots I had set all…

Poem Without a Gazelle

Leatha Kendrick ♦

Fall 2019/Winter 2020 ♦

Poetry

Waiting for the doctor for a room the latest test results for the iv nurse to finally thread the catheter into the vein so the test can start for the valet to find and bring your car for today’s exam to say you’re doing alright at least for your age…

Cover the mirrors,

Tina Parker ♦

Fall 2019/Winter 2020 ♦

Poetry

I told them On and on they hollered In prayer Their palms pressed Oil to my forehead I’ll fly away oh glory I’ll fly away in the morning. . . They faked my healing I cannot account for what evil May enter.

Redemption

Tina Parker ♦

Fall 2019/Winter 2020 ♦

Poetry

The minister says I’m alive Through grace says They may never know What rendered me silent He tells them to pray The spirit gives several messages In other tongues Praise the Lord They shout Praise the Lord The…

Testimony

Tina Parker ♦

Fall 2019/Winter 2020 ♦

Poetry

They told the judge I sat before an open fire Fell right into it But wasn’t a hair on my head singed. They recalled my vision A prophetess wearing clothes The color of rotten grasses Grounding sage to a fine powder They said I put it in their tea Told…

Conversion

Tina Parker ♦

Fall 2019/Winter 2020 ♦

Poetry

I saw I had to go down to the devil’s hell That was my home. I didn’t want to give up Worldly things but when the Lord got me ready I came leaping and jumping. I fell down on my knees And said “Lord if you will save me I’ll…

The Witch

Tina Parker ♦

Fall 2019/Winter 2020 ♦

Poetry

We try the old ways Wild geranium To stop the bleeding Devil’s clothesline For the burns and sores But our apron strings fall Loose our shoes will not stay Tied the beds rise up We wind up on the floor The clothes hung on the line Torn off till all…

Matryoshka (I see my old age in the faces of three women living in chernobyl’s exclusion zone)

Nicole Yurcaba ♦

Fall 2019/Winter 2020 ♦

Poetry

I love my native lands and I love my graves. —Hanna Zavorotnya, The Babushkas of Chernobyl Babushka No. 1 When you unfurl your head scarf, I half expect dupa1-length hair; instead, you wear it thinly-cropped, the grey cut close to the flesh. I suppose it’s easier this way, to sever…

Slow Heat

Tina Parker ♦

Fall 2019/Winter 2020 ♦

Poetry

High strung They called her Unsettled We come home She’d clawed her a notch Jerked the planks right out Said the witch needed her. Ginseng they said Ease the hippo Help her sleep Start slow Build the dose None of us knew What it would take To smother her.

Dungannon in Relief

Cheyenne Taylor ♦

Fall 2019/Winter 2020 ♦

Poetry

So all I have are snatches of a dream I can’t remember: roads drawn as if by fingers in the dust, hills with sun-stiff peaks. Escape and tell the story that you know, some ancestor must have said, but no one did. I’m still not sure if anyone remembers it;…